Happy with their king's absolute rule, most Bhutanese wonder why he is giving them democracy. A minority wonders why it is being left out

IF ONE man could have been expected to support the democratic change sweeping Bhutan, a remote and eccentric Himalayan kingdom, it was Kunzang Wangdi. But as the chief election commissioner queued to vote in Thimpu on April 21st, in a practice run for an inaugural election due next year, he looked mildly reluctant.

ReutersA full dress rehearsal for Bhutanese democracy

Could it be that even Mr Wangdi would prefer to remain under the heel of King Jigme Singye Wangchuck, who ruled Bhutan for 34 years before, last December, passing his throne to one of his sons and handing power to the people? “Yes, personally, because you can't have leaders like that from the people,” said Mr Wangdi, absent-mindedly acknowledging the bows of queuing commoners. For an official of his rank, this is a stiff-legged stoop, with fingers outstretched to mid-shin.

King Wangchuck—who warrants a special bow, with both hands raking the ground—had an impressive reign. At his accession, the average Bhutanese died at 40 after a life of uneased toil. Continuing a modernisation begun by his father, and underwritten by foreign aid, the king oversaw a transformation. Life expectancy for the 700,000 Bhutanese is now 64 years. The economy grew by 12% last year; GDP per person is reckoned to be $1,400—twice that of India. These are remarkable successes for a monarch committed to the pursuit, in his phrasing, of Gross National Happiness—a policy most constructively defined as favouring sustainable development over growth at any cost.

For most Bhutanese, King Wangchuck's imposition of democracy is therefore unwelcome. Only 125,000 people voted in the mock election, around 28% of the total eligible. Most turned out—in the elegant knee-length tunics and full-length dresses that Bhutanese must wear in public—because they were told the king wished it. Of the four fictitious parties they were asked to choose between, Druk (“Thunder Dragon”) Yellow, which stands for “culture and tradition” and bears the royal colour, won by a landslide. “It's too soon to bring democracy,” said Thinlay Dorjee, a businessman queuing to vote in Thimpu, a capital of finely-tiled roofs, monasteries and, by next year, the world's biggest statue, of the Buddha. “We should stay beneath our king who has given us so much.”

In fact, Mr Dorjee will more or less have his wish. Bhutan's modernisation programme is incremental and royally-guided. At some point, its people were likely to demand reform. But by controlling the pace of change, King Wangchuck has done better than the discredited King Gyanendra of Nepal, another Himalayan kingdom, whose absolute rule was swept away by protests last year.

Since 1998 Bhutan has been run by a council of royally approved ministers. Laws have been passed by a parliament whose members are either elected, or Buddhist clergy or picked by the king. Even after next year's election, the new king, Jigme Khesar Wangchuck, an Oxford-educated 27-year-old, will control the army and appoint key functionaries. The head of the new (genuine) main party, the People's Democratic Party, is his uncle. The king will be impeachable—with the support of two-thirds of an elected parliament—but this is currently unimaginable.

Young King Wangchuck and his clan will also keep a grip on the economy. Two more royal uncles head the country's two biggest conglomerates. Otherwise, the private sector is tiny. Growth is driven by state-owned hydroelectric power generation; the sale of surplus power to India accounts for 87.5% of Bhutan's exports. Last month saw the opening of an Indian-funded 1,020MW power station, more than tripling total generation. Yet this remains a small fraction of Bhutan's hydropower potential, estimated at 30,000MW. “We consider this our black gold,” says Karma Dorjee, the chief official in the trade and commerce ministry.

It is premature to see the Bhutanese as Himalayan versions of the oil-rich Gulf Arabs. As India buys more power from Bhutan, it will reduce the massive aid it gives the country, masking the benefit. And with 90% of the population in peasant agriculture, most Bhutanese remain poor. Nonetheless, many are already too pampered by the government—which spends 25% of its budget on health and education—to accept the lowest-paying jobs. To build roads and harvest fields, Bhutan imports up to 100,000 migrant workers from India's poorest northern states. Breaking stones by the road in sullen drudgery for two dollars a day, they are an unhappy contrast with the gaily-clad Bhutanese.

Worse, many of the road-builders are in fact Bhutanese, though Nepali-speaking and Hindu. Some of this minority—about 20% of the population—launched an insurrection in the 1990s, and all have suffered for it. The violence was partly a response to a racist policy of Bhutanisation, which included forcing Nepali-speakers to wear the Buddhists' costume and prove their right to citizenship by obeying strict rules. As a result, many lost this right. Some 60,000 fled to refugee camps in Nepal, where they languish. Many who stayed—including the relatives of the fugitives, whom the government deems terrorists—are denied citizenship. They are thereby ineligible for government jobs, or suffrage.

“It makes me angry,” says Thagi Maya, a road-builder, beneath the soaring walls and golden roofs of a 17th-century fortress in Punaka, a precipitous three-hour drive from Thimpu. Ms Maya and her husband were stripped of their rights after her uncle fled to Nepal. Her main hope is that her two children, who are at least permitted schooling, will escape the curse.